You’re leaving! I told my wife, Maggie Rowe, as she stood in the living room.
Maggie was doing the big NewYear cleanup and, while polishing every corner, she discovered a USB stick. It was tucked away behind the armchair, in the farright corner beside the radiatorpractically invisible, like a hidden job posting. She was crawling on the floor, wiping dust from every crevice, when the little gadget finally turned up.
It was the perfect timing: the eve of NewYear, the house buzzing with festive anticipation. As the old rhyme goes, many days off work, a tree full of lights, bubbles in a glass, a soft lamp glow, and a host of pleasant surprises.
The Christmas tree was still bare; Maggie simply hadnt found the time to dress it. Her husband, me, was no help at all. You know, love, I said, I cant possibly untangle and hang the tinsel! I wasnt great at placing ornaments evenly either.
Why not, Len? Maggie asked, amused. Look, the trunk is the axisbranches to the left and right. Hang a bauble on the left, then one on the right, checking for gaps. Fill them in. Easy, isnt it?
But handsome Lenmy nickname for myselfcouldnt see the axis or the balance. One side ended up a tangled heap of toys, the other a barren gap. He called it a bit of nonsense. I snapped, If you dont like it, hang it yourself! It was convenient to be offended.
The rule was simple: if you didnt like something, do it yourself. And that applied to cooking, cleaningmy laziness spread in all directions. So Maggie did everything on her own, sparing us the hassle of redoing things hundred times over.
I wasnt exactly a handyman; my mother never taught me the craft. Still, that wasnt a fatal flawMaggie was generous, and all she really wanted was a loving partner beside her. The rest could be sorted with a little humor, as the witty songwriters would say.
Maggies life was straightforward. She wasnt a nursery rhyme or a fairy tale; she was a clever woman, working for a firm that rents and sells highend properties. These days, penthouses and multilevel flats are in demand, whether the client wants a modest starter or a lavish palace.
Money was earned on the principle you get what you put in. Maggie spent the whole day hustling to bring home bread and butter, oranges, and a modest fishher way of saying I love you, darling! Meanwhile, I was chronically unemployed; my parents never pushed me to work.
We didnt have children yet. Lets live for ourselves, I declared, and put the plan into action.
I was a sturdy, goodlooking blokethink of a proper English lord, the sort who might inherit a country estate. I quit my job three years after we married. Can you imagine, love, they demoted me! I said.
What of it? Maggie replied. A demotion isnt humiliation; its a business need. At least we still have something to work on! She urged me to stay on a lowerpaid role, reassuring me that the loss would be minimal. I tried, but the job fell through in a spectacularly odd waymy aunt even joked that Id frost my ears off before giving up.
My fatherinlaw tried to set me up with a friend, but the commute was a dreadful fortyminute bus ride, while Maggie needed a car for her own job. Sorry, move along, shed say.
After two days of hard graft, I threw in the towel. My grandmother, ever the meddler, asked, Back on the sofa again? Id already rejected two more offers: one because the interviewer was a bore, the other because the boss was a complete prat.
Everyone expected me to be a baronet, a gentleman of high standing, perhaps even a modernday sultan. Clearly, I wasnt cut out for work; I was made to entertain and charm a ladynamely Maggie. Both my mother and I thought that was the plan.
Maggie loved me despite my grannys harsh words, calling me General of the Sofa Army. Whats it to you, love? I defended her, He doesnt just lounge at home! My grandma retorted, Youre angry because a pretty, smart girl has been saddled with a halfbaked bloke like you! And so Lenmewent off to the bathhouse with the boys, leaving Maggie to finish the preNewYear cleaning alone. Youll manage, love, she told herself.
There was no time to examine the USB; we owned several housesjust in case we need a place in Brazil. So the stick was shoved into an ashtray. I never looked for USB sticks, so it stayed mine. Maggie used them to store property listings, so the device lay untouched for a couple of weeks.
Then, as my grandma liked to say, something touched her, and Maggie finally decided to peek at the files, just in case there was something useful. I went out for a walkfresh air does wonders.
The video that started playing was a bizarre mix of hot tango, Thai massage, and some odd morningtoevening tutorial, according to my grandma, plus a fair share of indecency. Forget it, I muttered, its rubbish. The lead actor was obviously meLenalongside a synchronized female partner, all filmed on our couch, an unfamiliar setting.
It felt like another day of successful training. Exercise makes everything better, my wise grandma often said.
Im a proper poet, Maggie thought, pausing the clip after a few seconds. So thats what hes up to while Im at work. The scene hinted at a scandal with a wellknown prosecutor, involving blackmail. Who was blackmailing whom? I held no state secrets, nor much money. Still, some shady figure seemed to need me.
Maggie decided to take a day off, grabbed the USB, and drove to her clever friend Lucysharp as the famed Fima Sobak. Do you think hes a secret agent? Maggie asked, hopeful. Could they be blackmailing us for ransom? Lucy replied, joking about my maritime family background: Your seal is an agent? The only thing hes good at is lying down!
Lucy, sipping a tea called Drybrew, advised, Find a woman, love! She laughed, Your overinflated turkey isnt needed, especially not by a dimwitted woman! She then suggested I should be sent away.
Whats next? Maggie asked. Should we upload this rubbish online? I wondered why anyone would do that. Why does everyone post everything? Lucy retorted, quoting a sports star named Dzuba. What does he have to do with it?
Lucys seafaring uncle, a sailor, gave the conversation a nautical spin. Lets watch till the end, she urged, the story unfolds in an unexpected way.
We watched, and the ending truly surprised usno credits, just a womans voice saying, If you want to talk about this, heres my number. A slip of paper appeared with a phone number. AmericaEurope, Lucy gasped. Thats where the dog dug up the clue!
Maggie called straight away. We arranged to meet at a café, and Lucy offered to pose as my lawyer, promising to keep me from making rash decisions. I agreed, already thinking of giving my husband a push and sending his belongings to his mothers house, letting them polish their own skills.
At the café the scene played out like a classic drama:
We love each other, let him go, please! You saw how much we care, said a girl about my age, looking attractive.
Let go? What makes you think Im holding him? Maggie asked, puzzled.
The husband said it! the lawyer replied.
What else did he say? Maggie pressed.
Youre taking all his money, so you dont want a divorce! the lawyer declared.
The friends exchanged glances; the story grew stranger.
Youve been misinformed, dear! I said coolly. Take him, I dont mind.
Can we just take him now? the eager woman asked.
My husbands a… well a mess, I muttered.
Take him however you like, Lucy suggested.
Tonight bring his things, Maggie added.
The friends left, the stunned lover stayed seated, wondering if her evening dream would come true.
My husbandmewas snoring after a hearty lunch: mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a fruit compotedelicious. Maggie packed his belongings and left a suitcase by the hallway. When I woke, she announced, Youre leaving!
But you know I cant shop for groceries! I protested, thinking she was sending me to the store. Then go yourself!
The room was warm and cosy, the little tree glowing from Maggies careful decoration. The TV was playing a film, as it always did after NewYear. The Epiphany was approaching, the weather turned frosty, and the thermometer fell. It was also time for tea and crumpets, so no more excuses: Let her go herself!
Im not sending you to the shop, Maggie said.
Where to then? I asked.
To where you can show what you do best! she replied.
To mums? I suggested; my mothers house was my favourite spot.
To your grandma! Maggie snapped.
To which grandma? I asked, both my grandmothers now in heaven.
To the one who sees all your tricks! she said, turning the TV on.
I stared, bewilderedwas this an interior from a sitcom? Had the drama finally reached its limit?
Maggie then slipped the USB into my pocket, along with a handkerchiefmy favourite cloth accessory.
Come on, say something smart, she urged. Like, youre not really here; maybe youre an actor, or under hypnosis, or drugs! Remember the prosecutor? He fought like a lion, but I wasnt him, nor was I the horse.
Youre a proper macho, an alpha male! she claimed, Look at those legs, those calves! The prosecutor was a baby compared to me.
I stayed silent; I wasnt a fool, and I had no plans to leave Maggie. Apart from that, the flat was fine for casual pastimes.
My motherinlaws sailor uncle reminded me: Seven feet under the keelsail away, the channel is clear! I tried to apologise, Will you forgive me? I pleaded.
Cant, Maggie answered.
Pancakes? I blurted out.
She was stunnedif I deserved pancakes, theyd be cowflavoured. Sail without pancakes, Captain Cookrowing on an empty stomach is hard! she said, pulling the USB from my computer.
A bonus from the firm! Take it, show it to your motherlike a Stallone movie! she joked, and I left. Where to? Anywhere, she didnt care.
The scene shifted to another rhyme: the tree twinkling, the TV crackling, the old sofa empty. Finis! it declaredin French, the end.
A phone number appeared on a scrap of paper: AmericaEurope, thats where the dog dug up the clue! Lucy exclaimed. There you go, love! she said, Weve invented a whole agency to hunt agents like you!
I called the number, agreed to meet at a café, and Lucy claimed shed be my solicitor, keeping me from any rash moves. I consented, already planning to give my husband a swift kick and send his stuff to his mothers place, letting them polish their own craft.
At the café the drama unfolded:
We love each otherlet him go, please! You saw how much we love! said a pretty girl about my age.
Let go? How do you know Im keeping him? I asked.
The husband said it! the lawyer replied.
What else did he say? I pressed.
Youre taking all his money, so you dont want a divorce! the lawyer added.
The friends exchanged looks; the story grew wilder.
Youve been misinformed, love! I said coldly. Take him, I dont mind!
Can we just take him now? the eager woman asked.
My husbands a mess, I muttered.
Take him however you like, Lucy suggested.
Tonight bring his things, Maggie said.
The friends left, the stunned lover stayed seated, wondering if her evening dream would come true.
My husbandmewas snoring after a hearty lunch: mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a fruit compotedelicious. Maggie packed his belongings and left a suitcase by the hallway. When I woke, she announced, Youre leaving!
But you know I cant shop for groceries! I protested, thinking she was sending me to the store. Then go yourself!
The room was warm and cosy, the little tree glowing from Maggies careful decoration. The TV was playing a film, as it always did after NewYear. The Epiphany was approaching, the weather turned frosty, and the thermometer fell. It was also time for tea and crumpets, so no more excuses: Let her go herself!
Im not sending you to the shop, Maggie said.
Where to then? I asked.
To where you can show what you do best! she replied.
To mums? I suggested; my mothers house was my favourite spot.
To your grandma! Maggie snapped.
To which grandma? I asked, both my grandmothers now in heaven.
To the one who sees all your tricks! she said, turning the TV on.
I stared, bewilderedwas this an interior from a sitcom? Had the drama finally reached its limit?
